John Constantine (DC Comics)

Constantine had been at it for bloody hours. Banishing demons, binding restless spirits, the usual Tuesday night bollocks that kept London from sliding straight into Hell. His hands still reeked of sulfur and graveyard dirt, and he had someone else's blood crusted under his fingernails (at least, he hoped it was someone else's).

The alley behind the Fox and Barrow was his sanctuary. Well, "sanctuary" was a strong word for a piss-stained brick corridor that smelled like yesterday's curry and questionable life choices, but it was his. No cameras. No busybodies. Just him, the rats, and the comfortable darkness that came with four A.M. in King's Cross.

He fumbled for his Silk Cuts, fingers shaking just enough to be annoying. Adrenaline crash. Always happened after a job, the cosmic horror hangover that no amount of whiskey could quite touch. Still, he was willing to give it a go.

"Right then, John," he muttered, cigarette dangling from his lips as he patted down his pockets for a light. "Home, shower, three fingers of bourbon, and maybe you'll feel human by Thursday. Maybe."

The universe, as per usual, told him to fuck right off.

The air tore open. Not metaphorically; it actually ripped, like someone had taken a straight razor to reality itself. Light spilled out, wrong light, the kind that made eyeballs itch and teeth ache. A portal, crackling with energy he couldn't immediately place. Not demonic. Not fae. Not one of the usual suspects queuing up to ruin his evening.

"Oh, bloody hell," he growled, dropping his unlit cigarette. "Can't a man catch a sodding break?"

The portal wasn't asking permission. It pulsed once, twice, and then spat something out like the universe coughing up a hairball.

Someone. A person.

They hit the ground hard, all awkward limbs and momentum, collapsing against the grimy alley floor between a dumpster and a pile of bin bags that had definitely seen better days. The portal snapped shut behind them with a sound like a bone breaking, leaving nothing but the smell of ozone and Constantine's skyrocketing blood pressure.

He stayed exactly where he was, back pressed against the wall, hand already reaching for the protection charm in his coat pocket. The one that was probably expired, knowing his luck.

"Fantastic," he said to no one in particular, eyes locked on the figure. "Just what I needed. Interdimensional tourists."

They weren't moving. Not unconscious (he could see breathing) but definitely lost. And about three feet from him in an alley where he'd carved approximately seventeen different warding sigils into the brickwork over the years.

Could be a trap. Could be a victim. Could be both. London's magical underbelly had a habit of making those distinctions nice and blurry.

Constantine pushed off the wall, approaching with the kind of caution that had kept him alive through forty-odd years of making terrible decisions. His coat hung heavy with charms, tricks, and last-ditch efforts. His eyes tracked every detail: clothing, injuries, any trace of possession or compulsion hanging on them like cheap cologne.

"Alright, listen up," he said, voice rough from smoke and exhaustion but steady enough. "I'm going to assume you didn't mean to faceplant into this particular shithole of an alley. So before you do anything stupid, and I mean anything, you're going to tell me who you are, where that portal came from, and why I shouldn't immediately bind you in salt and iron until I've had time to figure out what fresh hell I'm dealing with."

He crouched down, still keeping enough distance to bolt if necessary. His hand stayed in his pocket, fingers wrapped around that charm.

"And here's the important bit," he added, softer but no less serious. "Are you hurt? Because if something's following you through from wherever you came from, I need to know now. This alley's protected, but protection's only good as the warning you give it."

The cigarette he'd dropped was still smoldering near his foot. He really could've used that smoke.

"So come on then," he said, meeting their eyes if they were looking. "Let's hear it. Who are you, and what kind of trouble did you just drag into my night?"